“Ethan, what the hell is going on?”
“Just meet me. It should take you twenty or twenty-five minutes to get there. I’ll be waiting.”
“Okay.” Only when she hung up did she wonder why he was nearby and not at home in San Francisco.
Andre closed his eyes as soon as Zoey walked out the door and opened them to find himself in his vineyard on Šolta.
He surveyed the black, windless night. Something was strange. His connection to Mila was weak—none of her feelings or thoughts colored his mood. Perhaps she was in a deep sleep. It was a relief. He was alone in his own skin and had a respite from the pall of her unhappiness. That made it easy to enjoy his chores.
Drizzle fell from the dark October sky. He set fire to a heap of trimmings and dry leaves. He scratched his forearms as the fire caught. When the itching became a burn, he stepped back from the heat of the flames, only to realize it was not the fire that burned him; it was a thousand, no a million, tiny rips in his flesh.
Mila.
She must be hurt. He was a league from the house. Drizzle stung his raw skin as he flew. He was there in a blink.
The smell of iron made his gut twist. A lot of blood. Please not her. He followed the scent upstairs. He prayed that he would find anyone other than her dead, but with stabs of sharp pain, his body was already telling him the truth. Then he saw it—the very blood that coursed through his veins, spilled into her bathwater. She floated, lifeless, blond hair fanning out in the pink stained liquid.
He vomited up the kitchen girl’s blood.
He crawled through blood and bile to lift her head from the water. He found her wrist, gaping. His hand fumbled for a pulse at her neck instead. Nothing. Worse than just no pulse. She was too cold. She’d been dead too long to turn.
No! A howl erupted from his chest, reverberating through the house.
He was dying. A trillion hot needles bored into him; barbed wire twisted through his intestines. He had known she was unhappy. But, how had it come to this? Had he failed her? Or was he simply so unlovable?
His heart seemed to explode like a cask of gunpowder, blown into bits, and still it pumped the toxic stuff through him—her blood, dying inside him. His every cell was ripped apart as the bond broke.
Andre curled onto the floor, hoping death would come quickly. A seizure shook him, banging his skull against the floorboards.
Someone cried out. Kos. Thank God it wasn’t young Bel.
Andre managed to whisper. “See to your mother.”
“She’s seen to herself.” His words were an angry hiss. Deep in Andre’s brain, relief registered—Kos did not blame him for Mila’s rashness.
Kos’s hand came to Andre’s face. He flinched and opened his eyes to see his bloody tears streaking his son’s fingers. Please, gods of my father, let me die now.
“Christ. What’s happening to you?”
“Our bond…”
Kos pulled at Andre’s shirt urgently. Andre curled tighter against the grating pain, trying to get free of Kos. Still, the boy’s hands were insistently tugging his buttons.
“What can I do? What will help you?” Kos asked.
“Take my head.”
“No.”
“Then at dawn I will—”
“You would do that to me?”
Andre’s mind was caving in on itself, but some kernel of duty remained intact. No. He would not abandon his sons.
He crawled into the cellar and suffered alone, where no one could hear him scream, wishing every second for the mercy of death.
Kos coaxed him back upstairs after two weeks by appealing to that same sense of duty. In the candlelight of the parlor, Andre saw the shock on his son’s face. That was when he noticed his clothing hung loosely, his skin too. His half dead body could not begin to repair itself without a meal of blood. That meant he would have to be close to a woman, a woman who would get wet and wriggle with his bite, and who was not Mila, whom his body still craved like an opium addict. If he’d had anything in his stomach, it would have come up with the thought.
He refused to feed until Kos pricked a maid’s finger for him. When he smelled her blood, his instincts took over. He pounced on her. Mindlessly, he covered her, feasting at her neck, the hot salt and iron of her blood soothing his parched gullet.
Kos’s human strength wasn’t enough to pull Andre off her when those same instincts demanded he take all the blood he needed. But Kos had brought two field hands with him. Together, all three men pulled Andre out of his stupor. The two laborers left with the maid and Kos sat down on the stone floor of the parlor next to Andre, their backs to the wall.
Andre cracked an eyelid and peered at Kos. He was haggard, lines of strain marring his face. Too many burdens on a young man. Andre needed to pull himself together for Kos’s sake.
“Is the blood helping?”
“It is.”
Kos turned, happening to brush Andre’s thigh with his knee. Pain shot up Andre’s femur to his spine and detonated in his brain. When the shudder came, he clenched his teeth hard. He had learned his lesson after biting the tip off his tongue, twice.
“Krist. Not fast enough,” Kos said.
Andre focused all his energy on getting control of the shudder. Long after his tremors stopped, they sat quietly. Slowly, the maid’s blood worked through him, taking the edge off his pain. Andre carefully eased his head to rest on the wall.
Kos stared at the stone floor.
“Did you know it would be like this, if she died?”
“No.” If he had truly comprehended of the intensity of a blood bond, he would never have bonded to a woman he barely knew. Among his friends, the bond appeared to be pure bliss. But those bonds were shared between two vampires, not the lopsided tie he’d had with the human Mila.
She had arrived like an angel in need, with a bright and curious Kosjenic in hand. His household women had taken in the hungry and destitute pair. At twilight, he had found the inquisitive child under a grapevine examining fruit almost ready for harvest.
“Sir, how do you know when they are ready?”
“I know by their smell. But look here. When you squeeze them, if the pits come free of the flesh, you know they are ripe.”
The boy’s small hand brushed Andre’s to take the little globe of fruit, and a lifeless place inside him flooded with tenderness. In nearly two thousand years, he had never passed more than a few words with a child. This small boy was a miracle of sentience and vitality—perhaps all children were.
Coming upon Mila in the kitchen later that evening, full behind bent over a basket of potatoes, he had desired her instantly. When she stood and greeted him with a curtsy, the hunger he felt was something new and astonishing. He felt more alive than he had in years. And Kos—the son he had not known he wanted—had made her irresistible. No, he could not tell Kos that part of the story.
“There are many things about the bond I did not understand. If you still want me to turn you, I will explain them all to the best of my ability.”
Kos cleared his throat, and Andre saw the gloss of grief over his gray eyes. “Do you know why she did it?”
Andre had barely strung together a rational thought since he found her dead. But he had pondered that question in every lucid moment, and he would damn well never tell Kos that his desire to have him as a son had tempted him into a bad match. The boy would feel responsible.
“She did not want to turn.”
She hadn’t wanted to from the start, but she had wanted the security Andre could provide. They had gotten along well enough, and she seemed to desire him. In truth, she had feared going hungry again, so she hid her unease about his vampire nature. The moment he bonded to her, he felt her deceit like a shadow inside him. It poisoned his affection for her, which, in hindsight had not been nearly enough. Infatuated with the idea of a family in need of a father, he had acted hastily.
Now a man of nearly twenty, and still everything Andre could ask for in a son, Kos stood up s
uddenly and went to the hearth, throwing a log onto the fire. “She could have grown old.”
“She felt my longing for her to turn too keenly. She found it stifling.”
For years he held out hope that she would come to accept him. If she turned, a shared bond between them could restore their affection. But a one-sided bond with a human…he knew her every emotion, and she hardly knew him at all. She offered him her long white neck and her lush body without knowing he could sense revulsion intermingling with her desire. It ate at him, but by then he was bonded and what she offered was his lifeblood, so he pretended along with her.
When he begged her to turn, she put him off with the promise of another child, and conspired with Uta on that secret magic. When Bel was born, she ran out of excuses.
“Did you threaten to turn her?”
“Davo. Kos…” Andre’s eyes burned. Double davo, he wanted to rub them. But if he started he wouldn’t stop. He would rub them raw and bleeding, and it would be a day before he could see again. He had found that out the hard way too. “Do you really have to ask?”
Kos didn’t answer.
A terrible thought dawned him. “Is that what Bel thinks?”
Still, Kos remained silent, no doubt protecting him from that grim truth; just as he sought to protect Kos from any sense of responsibility for the decision to marry Mila more than a dozen years ago.
Bel. Andre squeezed his hands into fists so hard that his fingernails sliced into his paper-like skin. Opening his palms, eight crimson half-moons healed slower than they should. He wanted to turn Bel over his knee, and then enfold the little devil in his arms. But then, that was how things had always been between them in the eleven years since he was born. He was too much Andre’s son.
“Will you live?” Kos asked.
He wiped his thumb across his palm—smooth. “I will live, and by the gods of my father, I will walk into the sun before I ever bond to a woman again.”
Kos sped to his house. The drive normally took about forty-five minutes, but he made it in little more than half an hour. He didn’t have Lena’s cell phone number, and she hadn’t answered the phone at his house. He couldn’t help but worry, given Pedro’s abduction.
When he arrived, he found her curled up on the couch asleep under a blanket. Her soft curls framed her face and her cheeks were pink with the warmth of sleep. She was even drooling a little onto the couch cushion. Adorable—
He shook his head. There could be no adoring Lena. She was the kind of woman who could tempt a man to break a vow. And he was the kind of man who kept his vows.
A volume of poems by Rumi lay open and face down next to her—the one that had been next to his bed. So, she’d done a little snooping. He’d expected that, but hadn’t worried—he didn’t have anything to hide from her.
Not wanting to wake her, he left a note saying he’d dropped by and asking her to call with her phone number.
He hopped back into his Mercedes, stopped in Forestville to slake his thirst for Lena on his friend Maria, and gunned the engine all the way to the Santa Rosa Airport, where Bel waited with his newly acquired sun-proof vans. He arrived just in time, as Bel’s jet landed and then taxied on the runway.
“How’s your girl?” his insolent brother asked while they watched the plane slow.
“She’s not my girl. She’s a householder who’s been severely disappointed by our callous father, and I’m going to find her a new job as quickly as possible.”
“If you say so.”
The plane came to a stop and Vania deplaned first, then two vampires Kos had met in London—the surly Henry, who needled the massive Omar with his elbow.
“Damn it’s good to see those mofos,” Bel said, laughing.
Kos chuckled too.
The rest of the crew piled-up behind them, everyone dressed for a fight in what Kos thought of as their uniforms—as yet unsoiled leathers or fatigues. He hung back as Bel greeted the crew with a series of high-fives, punches to upper arms, and one sideways hug for Vania. Then he was down to business.
He directed two of his vampires to Pedro’s house, slapping Kos’s back. “They’re skilled trackers and they’ve succeeded on missions more hopeless than this.”
Kos didn’t appreciate being reminded of its hopelessness. He rolled his shoulders, which grew tenser and tenser with every hour of silence from Pedro.
“I’m serious, bro. If anyone can, they’ll track him.”
In his dark blue Mercedes, Kos led the caravan back to Kaštel, pausing with his left turn signal on to let a silver Audi screech out of the drive. Zoey’s car, if he wasn’t mistaken. What had Andre done to chase her off?
Vania hopped out of the van and sidled up to him. She extended her hand, wearing an unreadable expression. “Hiya, Kos.”
“Hello, Vania. Welcome to Kaštel.”
“Who was the bat out of hell?” She nodded toward the drive.
“I think my dad just got dumped.”
“Zoey, was it?” Bel strode toward them, grinning.
Kos shook his head—Bel still delighted in Andre’s defeats, after all these years. But that wasn’t the whole story; he was here after all, and with his crew. When it mattered, he was loyal to their father.
The ragtag band of mercenaries unloaded duffel bags and the cases of guns. Only, they weren’t really ragtag anymore, not like they’d been when Bel had assembled them years ago. Old and powerful vampires, witches like Trys, and whatever the hell Vania was with her magic firepower. They were an impressive force.
Andre opened the door as the last of the crew approached the house. He peered around them, apparently looking for Zoey. Kos’s father looked younger, which meant the wine was working, but its youthful effect was counteracted by the scowl on Andre’s face.
Kos pitied him instantly. “She’s gone. Did you bite her?”
“No. But she found out.” Andre clenched his teeth so tightly he barely let the terse sentence out of his mouth. “For the best. Needed her gone.”
“If you say so.” Kos crossed his arms over his chest.
“Bel. Introduce me to your crew.”
Bel made the introductions, first naming the six vampires and four humans he employed. In the back of the crowd, Ani and Vania were bickering about bringing in some sort of machine from the van. The others made room for them in the semi-circle they’d formed around the front door.
“Ah, let me guess. Vania? Kos has told me you can do amazing things with fire.”
“Fire likes me.” Vania shrugged, turning pink.
Kos wanted to kick his ass into a bright afternoon. It had been a major mistake to confide in either his father or his brother about that kinky little affair.
Krist, was Vania batting her eyes? Kos’s head fell forward, and a bug flew into his gaping mouth. Spitting, he glanced at his brother to find a dark scowl. Bel would not take well to Andre charming his best friend.
“I’m Ani,” said a young woman, stepping toward Andre.
Andre studied her. In Ukrainian, he asked, “Short for Anastasia?”
“Of course,” she replied, beaming at him.
Some of the pity Kos felt for Andre spilled over onto poor Bel. His badass mercenary chicks were practically eating out of Andre’s hand.
The oldest vampire on Bel’s crew, Omar, inhaled through his nose. “Not a trace of Hunter in the air.”
“Let’s hope our arrival remains under their radar.” Bel pushed Andre aside to enter the house, effectively seizing control. Over his shoulder, he called out, “Henry, Trys, pull the vans behind the house into the workroom. Then meet us inside.”
Andre opened his mouth, and Kos braced his hand against the stucco wall for an alpha showdown. But his father bit back the words and silently followed Bel into the house.
As Andre drew up to the dining room table, Zoey’s presentation seemed like a long lifetime ago. Davo. He was a live wire—anxious for Pedro, traumatized by the memory of Mila’s death, and relieved Zoey was gone. Yes. Reli
ef was the best word for the emptiness her absence left.
He had to keep his household and his vines safe, he had to cure Kos and save the other refugees. He had no right to mope. More importantly, he had no right to assert control. Bel was a man, and he’d built this army; he was their leader, and Andre respected that. His crew gathered around the table and Andre gave them all his focus.
He could sense a lot of power coming off Omar—probably the oldest of the vampires that worked for Bel. Omar was even taller than him, with onyx-black skin and intelligent eyes. Underneath his British accent was the slightest West African rhythm, and he cut straight to the point.
“Vania says you want to secure this entire property, including all the vineyards. Assuming for the moment that’s possible, I’d like to know why.”
Bel started to answer Omar’s question, but Andre spoke first. “Bel, if it’s all right with you, I’ll answer. I assume that I can speak freely?”
Bel blinked, then nodded, seeming to appreciate the deference. “Yes, I trust them with my life.”
“In short, I believe the wine we are making can cure our wasting disease.”
Omar looked closely at Andre. “How long have you been in exile?”
“A century and a half, give or take.” Omar’s mouth opened in surprise and Andre took some pride in his newly youthful appearance.
“Keep talking,” said the big male.
“In our homeland, I made wine that we could drink.”
Two other vampires murmured a sound of disbelief. Omar hissed at them, showing a little more predator than Andre thought polite in mixed company. “Let him speak.”
“Tell them from the beginning, Andre, or else they won’t believe you.”
“I was a soldier in the Roman Empire in the first century. According to Roman custom, I was given land for my service, in Illyricum—Croatia, now.”
Omar nodded and the movement caught Andre’s eye. He scanned the others to make sure they were following. “On my tours of duty, I had seen the vineyards in Italy and Gaul. I was fascinated by them and learned as much as I could. I was determined that, if I survived my service, I would plant a vineyard and make wine.”
Blood Vine Page 13
